Till Death
by Schmuzz
Summary: Instead of getting kidnapped or taken in by the Templars or Assassins, Desmond convinces Alex to join him in his life on the road, where they remain relatively happy for the rest of their days.


Alex Mercer and Desmond Miles stay together until the world ends. Its winter – in the depths of December, of course – but they're somewhere on the southern border of California and there's not a speck of snow, or an hour of overcast skies like Manhattan would have given them.

They can see the sun glaring overhead; peacefully distant and docile for the time being. The solar flares should kick in about two hours from now; it's debatable whether the earthquakes will collapse the hotel they're holed up in first, or if they'll survive long enough to meet the rushing barrage of tsunamis that will sweep at least two miles inland.

Dana was somewhere over the border – most Americans were at this point. She had been the one to tell them – to dig up the information. She had been pushing the story for weeks – her last story – but no credible source was willing to vouch for her, or a small team of scientists who refused to be hushed by money or immunity or the hollow promise of government funded safety. She had called them a few minutes ago; she talked, they all talked, about how hot it was getting, about all the animals running away or finding their owners or doing whatever weird shit it is that animals do when they know they are going to die. She was at a hotel, too. She shelled out money for a resort; spent her time testing out her High School level Spanish and tanning and getting room service and massages and pedicures because, well, why the hell not? There was no way to get back into America – not if Alex snuck her over the border in the first place – so she said she was waiting out the last of their time by wading in the crystal blue waters of a swimming pool in the shape of a doughnut. Not too shabby, she had said, even though her voice trembled a bit. She told Alex not to come see her. It would all be over anyway. "I've had you around for practically four years," she said, counting the time she spent in a coma. "Stay with Desmond for another day." And then they all said their respective goodbyes and hung up.

Alex and Desmond weren't in a resort; after leaving the city in August it had been a few blurry weeks of odd jobs and sleazy motels and Desmond trying to teach Alex through example what life as a wanted civilian was like. Alex had seen and fought off Templars – once. They moved halfway across the country after that, not stopping until they hit Las Vegas for another blurred week of doing nothing and everything substantial.

So, now here they were. The hotel wasn't much, but it had fresh sheets and an endless supply of hot water, which was good enough for Desmond – and the man's apparent low standards and expectations for living conditions was only bested by Alex's total indifference. So they were both happy, and they blew through the last of their savings on three nights and every type of food either had ever expressed some joy in eating – liquor included.

"Got any regrets?" Desmond asked, glancing back at an empty bottle of Grey Goose. It was ten in the morning, but he knew that he wouldn't make it to ten at night, anyway. The buzz hadn't kicked in yet, and he managed to sidle next to Alex, who was sitting on a pillow he had draped over the uneven ledge of the window sill. Their feet dangled against the flat white stone outside. The air was acrid and crackling and warm. Desmond smiled in the sunshine.

"Do you?" Alex asked back, shifting – not farther, but closer, until their thighs touched and Desmond took the hint and leaned a bit himself, putting a hand on Alex's knee.

"I sort of feel kind of responsible." Desmond said. He nodded out at the sky – cloudless and so magnificently blue it hurt his eyes. "For this. Like I should be doing something else. Like I'm forgetting something."

"Same here," Alex muttered. "So much for Fate, huh?"

"You might still survive this, you know." The reminder comes with a ghosting of hot air over the pair; Alex has nothing to say. Nothing new to say, at least. There is an implication spread over Desmond's words. Something they've both deciphered weeks ago.

When they first got the call from Dana – the weather was still exceptionally that of Autumn then – there had been panic. Terror. Desmond, mostly Desmond, had kept on saying that there was no way the world could just stop. What he meant was, why is life so goddamn rigged that it has to stop _now_? It was true, of course, and the increasing list of natural disasters around the globe only added layers of terrifying proof onto Dana's solid death warrant. Alex had never seen Desmond as unhinged as then – those long days of desperation before an accepting peace settled. There had been fighting, attempts at running away – to where, Alex had to ask, and Desmond did not know, either – plans to find a shelter, plans to do something, at one point Alex had even thought he saw Desmond praying on the edge of their bed, as if there was nothing left to cling on to except for hysteria and sobs.

There were four days of silence, after that. Endless driving and endless quiet, stretching out into the horizon day after day after day. And then Desmond got better. Maybe he broke – but he looked too happy to just be gone. It was an odd acceptance, a toleration. Maybe he was just too stubborn to die unhappy. That was when they went to Vegas, and then ended up somewhere in Imperial County, still drunk and wobbly and wondering how much they had spent and how much had been stolen. They went to the beach once, and then decided it was too much trouble. They walked around the rich tourists and rich inhabitants and wondered if that big lake they had seen driving in would disintegrate or not.

They spent most of their time talking, or thinking, and when the introversion ran out they made love – or, well, fucked – either one. They kissed and touched and didn't bother thinking that they were wasting precious time – this was fun, this was nice; they could sit and count this as a happier time to look back on if there was a future to be had.

Desmond had been the one to mention it first, sometime when they were still in Sin City. "You can infect me, you know." He had said. Casually. Leaning against their room's balcony, back bared in mid-afternoon. "If there's a chance of anything surviving, it might be you." The Blacklight Virus, but Alex was worlds more than just that to either of them.

It made sense, of course. And Alex refused. Desmond was almost surprised until he saw Alex's eyes and remembered James Heller. "It wouldn't be you, anymore," Alex explained. "You could look like Desmond and talk like Desmond, but infection kills the host body in the process. Any memories you have would be second hand. Inherited. I don't know if I could…" love that – a shell. "You would die anyway, whether you remember dying or not." Desmond blinked, nodded, knowing that he might not ever comprehend the way Alex functioned on that sort of level. He continued on, "It's the nature of men to make monsters, and monsters to destroy their makers." And that, at least, Desmond understood. So they would both die, in a stunning show of mortality or devotion or something else. There were worse ways to go, probably. There were always worse things than just dying. Dying happy with someone you loved – a friend, a lover, a confidant – at your side, smiling with you? Well, it was better than anything Desmond could have imagined. It beat getting your brains blown out in a back alley somewhere, at least.

So the answer of survival came slowly, as Alex drew himself forward, back to Now. "I might," he replied. Desmond reached down to take his socks off. He let them fall down into the bushes below because, well, why not?

"And you're positive – "  
>"I am." Desmond bit his lip. It was swollen from all the time Alex had kissed him. "I will do anything you want me to." He added, as an afterthought.<p>

"I… it would be nice, to live," Desmond said slowly, staring at his feet, at some far off palm trees. It was too ironic to be miserable in a place like this, so Desmond let any rational emotions – anything he should have been feeling - fade out. "But the world wouldn't be like this. It would take years – centuries, even – to fix things. And even then, no modern marvels for a while. No electricity – running water. It would be hard enough to help the human race if you feed off it." Alex shifted, and then – "Hey," Desmond was saying, his nose bumping along Alex's jaw and temple, shifting with each breath. He could feel dark eyelashes against his cheek. Fluttering not like wings or something rustling in the breeze, but in that heartbreakingly fragile way of simple biology – those eyelashes were there for a reason, and Alex had somehow gained enough humanity between being created and sitting beside Desmond at that moment to find a softer, gentler meaning behind the creation; looking beyond the latent function and instead wishing to feel the soft prickle on his skin because he could. "Hey," Desmond was saying again. His eyelashes twitched some more, and he could feel the other's heartbeat radiating from his skin. "It's not your fault." Not implying that there wasn't some fault to be had, or that Alex had never been wrong, but here it was okay, and the honesty felt relieving in a way that the lie of 'it's never been your fault' could have been. "Hate the sin, love the sinner, right?" Desmond said. There were heavy lips against Alex's neck, now. They were quivering, pulled into a smile.

"I thought you didn't believe in that,"

"No. I don't. But there's some good morals and shit in there. You should read it, if there's anything left." There was a kiss and Desmond was pulling away again.

"You make it seem like dying isn't a big deal."

Desmond shrugged. "Hey, it's just one life. I figure, the world can deal without one life."

They both heard Alex swallow down something. "Yeah." Alex said.

The sun was blistering.

"Yeah." Desmond said back.

There wasn't much else left to do but wait.

**xxxx**

**A/N: A real life friend of mine said that **_**Affinity**_** would have been better if Alex had rescued Desmond, barring the entire Assassin's Creed series, despite the end-of-the-world plot and everything. This is a pseudo version, then, of what would have happened if Desmond had never gone into an Animus. A second part was thought on but deemed not really necessary, but hey, if I feel like delving into it again.**


End file.
